Wild Wild West:Night Of The Rogue
by T. S. Griffin
Summary: Framed for a murder he did not commit, West begins a deadly cross-country search for a cunning assassin, while Artemus tracks a traitor within the Secret Service. Leading to a thrilling conclusion at the 1876 Worlds Fair in Philadelphia. 60s TV series
1. Chapter 1

**1**

Foggy nights, crowded venues, and persistent, pompous, arrogant heads of state, James West knew, was the worst thing in the world. Especially when you are responsible for the protection of a persistent, pompous, arrogant Emir attending one of the biggest receptions in years, on a brisk and foggy San Francisco evening.

West was able to convince the mulish Grand Emir of Aziz, a small country north of India, to be escorted by two of the best agents in the Secret Service; Scott Barclay, a longstanding agent with an exceptional record, with dozens of personal protection details under his belt. Professional and very focused, Barclay was the obvious choice for close contact protection of the Emir. Normally, Artemus would be flanking the 'protectee' also, but West satisfied the Emir's arrogant sense of self by suggesting that Agent Fairplay escort the Emir to this evenings festivities; agent Cassandra Fairplay; equal in intelligence as in beauty, was the first woman in the field not being used as a secretary or as a seamstress. Cassandra not only had beauty as an advantage, but was physically challenging also, an excellent marksman and efficient in the oriental art of Ju Jitsu. The Emir had insisted on having only one bodyguard but once laying his eyes on Fairplay, he irrefutably insisted on her close and personal protection. West slipped one more in as well, Artie, in the guise of Ellison J. Porter, special envoy of President Grant, was to be in service to the Emir during his visit in America. West felt confident of the assigned detail.

The Metropolitan Opera House was in the middle of an extensive renovation with the main floor seating gone, its' box seats and balcony inaccessible, but the stage was intact and an evenings' entertainment was scheduled, including a burlesque show followed by the Washington Players; an acting troupe who had delighted many visiting heads of state since its formation thirty years ago. The guest list composed of many of the region's important dignitaries, industrialists, and patrons of the arts. The Emir's sightseeing tour was on its beginning leg, starting with his reception in the west coast and a cross-country railroad trip eastward, eventually meeting with President Grant and other world leaders in Philadelphia for the Centennial Exposition; America's first International Exhibition displaying cultural and industrial advances that America had accomplished during its first 100 years of independence.

West had five roving agents on the main floor to mingle within the crowd, two at the main entrance, with an agent at the backstage entrance and each of the fire exits. Lookouts had been posted on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, armed with Winchester Rifles and alarm whistles. Including West, there were sixteen agents on duty with ten San Francisco police officers patrolling the unused hallways of the elevated portions of the building.

Gas-powered lampposts were lit throughout the city despite the fog's attempt to swallow and distort visibility. The sun began to set, its' day-long battle to penetrate the gray haze had left it defeated, although the last of its' falling rays fought on, providing the streets with a multi-colorful glow between the cloud-filled shadows taking over the city's structures. The breathtaking beauty of the bay along with the reputation as a unique town, with an air of culture and civility, was the reason the Emir chose San Francisco as his tour's starting point. He did not understand that there was also an underlying dangerous side to the city. This rugged town was founded on gold, and partnered with gold was always greed, envy, lust, and revenge. Men, who were fast with the gun and the women (not necessarily in that order), were very unfortunate in that at any time, there was either too much of one or not enough of the other. This seamy powder keg had a short fuse and more often than not, the spark that would ignite that fuse was facilitated by alcohol and pressed by ego, always ending with a flash of a hand and death.

James T. West had been molded and forged within that fire. A fighting man with fast fists, James West certainly had his own reputation as a deadly gunslinger, having cunning and guile, melded along with intelligence and charm made him a fearsome adversary. And because of life's harshness and unforgiving cold he had chose the life he lived and believed that he had a responsibility to the universe, to do his best to tip the scales of justice in favor of the innocent. West had seen the dark side of man and their insurrections, thus forever fortifying his tenacity and spirit in regards to his duty and his country.

West inspected the placement of the detail and reaffirming his agents' responsibilities, then went outside to check on any suspicious or overlooked contingencies. The fog made him wary but it was not too thick for his rooftop observers to efficiently do their jobs. He made his way to all of the alternate exits and reviewed the nights' plans with the stationed agents, from there he met with the police officer in charge to answer any lingering questions that they might have. He then inspected the makeshift kitchen erected in the rear of the auditorium. A pleasant banquet was nearing completion and West could not help but to sample some of the fare, a delightful array of west coast seafood and beef dishes adorned the banquet tables, he kept himself from fixing a plate and figured he could manage some dinner well after the Emir's appearance. West glanced at his pocket watch, fifteen minutes until their arrival; he proceeded to the middle of the floor and gave the room an once-over; shimmering streamers wistfully swayed near banners of welcome that blossomed from the middle of the high ceiling, hanging some forty feet above the floor. Colorful flags were placed around the perimeter of the room and glimmered brilliantly against the crimson of the wall carapace, and all of the tables were perfectly decorated with intricate flowered centerpieces and eloquent place cards. One of the roving agents confirmed that every table and chair had been inspected for hidden firearms and that the Emir's table had also been inspected thoroughly. West had one more stop before heading to his post, backstage. The catwalk had been disabled during the renovation and all of the entertainers were clean in their background checks, the stage door was guarded and could only be opened from the inside. Nearing the dressing rooms West straightened his tuxedo jacket and vest and weaved his way through the dancers stopping behind a raven-haired beauty, "Break a leg," he said, speaking to the dancer from the reflection in her mirror.

"Why Mr. West," Anastasia Chase said spinning around to face him, "I did not expect to see you until tonight."

Her emerald eyes searched for an answer, "We still have a date tonight, don't we?"

Playfully he answered, "Well, it looks like I'll be working overtime, but…" West raised her from the chair and with a smile concluded, "…it looks like I'll be undercover until the morning."

Anastasia's face brightened and with a raised brow replied, "We'll just see about that Mr. West," she continued with a giggle, "Ten O'clock?"

Her question made West remember the time; he only had a couple of minutes to reach his observation point.

"Yes," he answered with a wave of his hand and as he was leaving he noticed her lovely hourglass figure filling her bustier exquisitely and with that keepsake, he snaked through the crowded dressing room toward the stage.

From the stage, he made his way to the floor and scanned the area once more for any discrepancies. With silent acknowledgement that everything was all right from the ground agents he started for the stairwell that led to his post. By this time the guests had arrived and were filling the lobby awaiting the Emir's arrival. Guests had signed in while West had been in the dressing rooms and most were in small groups introducing themselves and carrying on various conversations. West silently nudged the police officer on the stairs, reminding him to remain focused, as apparently he was fixated on watching the celebrity. The police officer corrected himself and West proceeded up the stairs.

West recognized the sounds of the Emir's entrance as he quickly walked the hallway for his post; applause and cheers was wafting through the rafters. Between the cheers and clapping West heard a gunshot. His heart raced and realized that his post would have the best vantage point to evaluate the situation, so he rushed ahead instead of backtracking and being caught within the chaos of the crowded main floor. He entered the balcony and quickly peered over the edge; the guests had scattered from the scene; Fairplay hovered over the lifeless body of the Emir; neither Artemus nor Barclay were there; two of the five floor agents flanked the body, guns drawn; the police officers were escorting guests to safety. West scanned the adjoining balconies for the gunman since that was everyone's area of concern; no one in view. Then he happened to spy on the floor of his suite a rifle, he examined it and it had been recently fired, he also found a spent shell casing a few feet away. The door crashed open, Barclay, another agent, and some police officers behind them filled the doorway.

West was taken back.

Barclay, with his revolver raised and his breathing strained from running to the scene, demanded, "Drop the weapon and raise your hands!"

West froze in disbelief.

"Now, West," Barclay ordered, "drop the rifle or I will shoot!" his finger slowly pulled on the trigger.

**2**

West had been arrested and taken to the nearest police station for incarceration. Two hours had passed and West had been secluded in his cell since his arrival. He had been thoroughly searched; his ripped and frayed tuxedo was evidence to the fact. Being that his own agents had searched him, his secret arsenal was gone. Everything had been confiscated, the picklock in his lapel, sleeve gun, the throwing knife hidden in the back of his jacket, the exploding pocket watch, and the breakaway derringer stored in his boot heels.

He was lost in thought, he had been blindsided, and was growing evermore furious with the situation. He stood from his seat and started pacing around the stationary interrogation table, wringing his hands as he walked and yet again went over the last five hours in his head. West was finding it more and more difficult to maintain his train of thought as his anger was beginning to push its way through; West noticed his aggressiveness and figured he needed to remain rationale and calm upon hearing the rattle of jailer's keys and the approaching footsteps of whom he knew - his interrogators.

Before they could come in to view of the cage West slipped into the chair furthest from the door and loosely folded his arms in front of him.

West watched as they entered the hallway, a police officer was leading the way, close behind was agent Barclay and Col. Richmond; Deputy Director of Field Operations, U. S. Secret Service, and at a close third, the San Francisco Chief of Police, Carter Duggan.

The officer unlocked the door and stood aside as the men strode in, the unmistakable steel clank rang through the emptiness of the space as the door was re-bolted behind them. Their demeanor noted no nonsense as they took up positions silently on the other side of the table. Richmond had taken the rooms only other chair and placed his palms on the table. Barclay, at his left, leaned against the table; his tuxedo jacket held open by his arms with his hands in his trouser pockets, his thick handlebar moustache, along with his lips curled with disapproval. Duggan, to the Colonel's right, perched himself alongside the cage bars, one arm resting upon the other as he rubbed the red scruff of his jaw, sizing up West with his dark blue eyes. Duggan was known as a 'take no prisoners' cop and for all appearances a straight shooter, despite a rumor or two of indiscretions on his behalf.

The silence was almost deafening until West addressed Richmond, "Where's Artemus?"

"Gordon has been debriefed and relieved of duty concerning this case," the Colonel said, slightly shifting forward in his seat, "Artemus has been cleared of all involvement and duties pending the outcome of the investigation."

"You should be more concerned about the situation you are in," chimed Barclay.

West retorted without removing his gaze from Richmond, "You have an assassin on the loose, Colonel and the longer we sit…"

Duggan jumped in, "We have the murder weapon found in your possession, fired from your post, and a witness who positively identified you as the shooter."

West kept his poker face and knew it would not be forthcoming so he did not press for any information about the witness.

Barclay shifted and leaned toward West, "Jim, who hired you to assassinate the Emir?"

"I'm not the assassin and if I was, do you think I would have honestly been captured?"

The question stabbed at Barclay and Duggan, both heated, they sprang forward, verbally hurling accusations, coming inches from West's face. West remained motionless, still focused on Richmond.

"Gentlemen, give me a moment with West alone," Richmond inserted, "A few minutes," the Director calmly ordered.

Barclay and Duggan, still angered with West' attitude and demeanor, reluctantly left the cage, both glaring at West with contempt, eventually walking from sight. Richmond turned to West, "Jim, an international situation is unfolding, with the United States on the short end of the stick. Aziz is demanding answers and wanting blood, your blood. So, if you know anything about this you need to tell me now."

West started to speak but seeing the expression on Jim's face Richmond interrupted, "I'm not disputing innocence or pronouncing guilt, I have worked with you far too long to believe you guilty," he stood and started pacing, "Jim, with the overwhelming evidence against you, my hands are tied regarding what I can and cannot do for you." He placed his hands upon the table, "All I can do is assure you that I will do my best to solve this quickly and with the best of my ability clear your name," he earnestly continued, "I need you to tell me everything that happened, Jim, trust me."

There was a moment of silence as West pondered the Colonel's words and with his decision, West met Richmond's eyes, "It's not that I don't trust you Colonel, I don't believe I can trust whom you trust." West finished the conversation, "I'll talk when I have sufficient counsel."

Richmond straightened up, disappointed he turned to leave knowing that until West had a lawyer; it would be a fruitless interrogation.

As the Colonel exited the cage West called to Richmond from the other side of the bars, "Colonel," he presented his hand to shake the Colonel's, "Sir, you do what you have to," they shook hands, "and I'll do what I have to."

West, with ease, slipped over and tightened a makeshift lariat around the Colonel's wrist. Before Richmond could react West twisted and kicked, his boot caught the guard's hand as he was trying to hold the cage door with one hand and lock it with the other. The force of the kick broke the guards fingers and caused the door swing open. The guard screamed from the pain and slumped on one knee, which brought Duggan and Barclay from around the corner. Richmond, shocked and surprised, had reached his other hand between the bars to free himself, West seized the opportunity realizing that he had to reach the door before Duggan and Barclay. West, with amazing speed, bound the Colonel's hands together and leapt for the open doorway. Barclay, who was smaller and faster than Duggan reached the entrance first and reached inside to pull the gate, hoping to keep West contained. With inches to spare West slipped by the closing door and grabbed Barclay by his shoulders using the momentum from his leap, swung Barclay around launching him into Duggan's legs. Duggan grunted painfully as the force of the human projectile propelled him into the air; West was past Richmond and had rounded the corner before Duggan landed atop the injured guard.

Police officers started to flood the hallway, racing toward the commotion. West let them pass then dropped from the ceiling where he had braced himself against the walls. He closed and locked the hallway door, leaving most everyone behind in the holding cells.

He evaded the remaining officers' by running and skidding over the desks, flinging chairs here and there to cover his escape. West nabbed an overcoat as he happened upon a coat rack near the exit, whipping it on as he left the building and faded into the seamy night.

**3**

The police station was oddly silent as Gordon entered; he shook off the night's wet chill before investigating further. He had changed from his earlier disguise into his working clothes, consisting of various costumes within its layers and included a small disguise kit, which housed spirit gum, nose putty, and three fake moustaches. It was not as extensively stocked as the master kit back aboard the train but extremely useful in pinch. Artie took off his cape and hat and hung them upon the rack and was amused at the disarray his partner had left. Richmond, Duggan, Barclay and nearly a dozen police officers were imprisoned in their own jail with two other officers on the opposite side frantically trying to free them.

Artie was disappointed that his timing was off; as he had hoped to catch Jim before his escape, to compare notes and slip him some much needed accessories; but by the look of things, he figured that West's getaway had just happened a few moments before his arrival.

"Gordon!" Artie looked across the room, searching for that familiar bark. He carefully made his way across the floor, tiptoeing over strewn papers and sidestepping overturned chairs stopping a few feet behind the two officers on their knees working on the locked door.

"Gordon," Colonel Richmond addressed, tugging the lariat with his free hand trying liberate the other, continued with Artie, "What in the name of Saint Elmo's Fire are you doing here?!"

Gordon responded, peeking over the guards to see what the difficulty with the lock was, "I came to discuss your judgment in keeping me from taking part in this case," he straightened to address the Colonel directly, "but…" pausing, he acted as if he was going to leave, saying over his shoulder, "… I see that you have the situation well in hand without me…" he left his statement hanging, playing on the Colonel's frustration and desperation.

"I'll arrest you for hindering an ongoing investigation and abating an escaped prisoner," Duggan threw from behind Richmond's shoulder, fuming and barely able to stand on his injured legs. Artie continued on.

Between Richmond and the other trapped officers was Barclay, face red from ire and rubbing his sore neck, he added, "West broke off the key in the lock and now it's jammed."

"Well," Artie spun around slowly, stretching out the moment, "I don't know how I could help with this case, despite the fact that I've worked alongside West for years and…"

Before Gordon could continue his list of reasons Richmond jumped in, "You can start by getting this blasted door open." Richmond touted, nearing his boiling point because of Gordon's extortion.

Artie approached the jammed door and waved the guards from the front of it, his hands brushing the air as they stood aside. He crouched down, examined the mechanism for a moment, stood, reached into his vest pocket and revealed a small rubber ball with a tiny shaft protruding from it. Gordon squeezed the ball and squirted highly concentrated acid over the bolt between the door and the housing in the wall, small wisps of smoke slowly inched upward as the acid began to eat away the metal.

"That should free you in a couple of minutes," he returned the ball to his pocket and created a seat out of the nearest desk corner.

The prisoners flooded from the doorway as the gate swung open, Duggan began touting orders, "Fan the immediate area, I want men posted at the train station and at check points leading from the city."

Gordon discretely placed his hand over his mouth to hide his chuckle, he knew Jim wasn't going to leave town, unless the assassin's trail warranted so.

Richmond finally unloosened the lariat from around his wrist, he turned to Barclay, "Find agent Fairplay and meet Gordon and I at the Wanderer in no more than an hour." Exasperation riddled throughout his voice, he then faced Artemus.

Artie commented on the lariat that the Colonel tossed upon a desk, "It looks like Jim fastened that from the lining of his tuxedo jacket…"

Richmond's response was a cold glance and a muffled curse he kept under his breath. Gordon, slightly behind, followed him to the exit of the building and waited patiently as the Colonel searched for his overcoat.

"I suppose when we convene with Fairplay and Barclay we are to organize a strategy?"

"Correct," said Richmond as he shuffled about the rack, "You know as well as I that Jim isn't going into hiding," he shifted his search to the floor and behind the coat rack, "He is going to set forth to catch the assassin and clear his name," the redness of annoyance reappeared in his face, "the son of a bitch stole my coat!"

"Sir," Artie interrupted, "you're correct in your assumption that Jim will pursue the real assassin, but he isn't going to waste any time…"

"What's your point," stated the annoyed Deputy Director.

"My point is if we want to remain in the race, we need to act now," Gordon retrieved his hat and cape, "Give me two hours to drum up some leads and meet you and the others back at the train."

Mulling it over, Richmond answered, "On two conditions, one that you be honest and keep me in the loop…"

"Agreed, and the other?"

"The other is actually an order. Give me your cape, it's freezing out there."

**4**

The fog had assisted West in remaining unseen as he made his way through the San Francisco streets, avoiding the police that had been dispatched to find him. He was starting to feel the chill of the night, even with the overcoat he had liberated from the police station. It would be hard to remain inconspicuous in his tuxedo, especially since it had been torn and ravaged from the weapons search his colleagues executed earlier, and he utilized the all of the lining from the tuxedo jacket to fasten himself the lariat used in his escape.

And now he was standing in the mouth of an alley watching the apartment building across the way, huddled closely to a fence and enveloped by the shadows, Jim waited to enter the building until he was absolutely sure it was safe. He did not even venture the thought of going to the train, he was headstrong but not foolish; the Wanderer would have agents waiting for him, he could be captured or worse killed. West knew that he would not get another opportunity to escape again. As he hovered in the night, a light rain descended over the area and Jim pulled the up the collar of the coat and began to examine the situation; whoever had set him up had to know that he would escape and try to find the real killer or die trying. That was the option he bet the killer was banking on-die trying. He felt his jaw tighten and the muscles of his back stiffen as he gleaned the idea of being used, his blood began to boil. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down, there was no use in letting his emotions guide his actions, not yet anyway.

West scanned the street, not too many people ventured into the cold drizzle blanketing the city, another reason to head indoors for a while was the lack of crowds to hide in and the longer he remained outdoors the greater the chance of being approached by the police. He stepped back into the shadows as a carriage passed by and did not emerge until the fog swallowed it.

He made certain of the address as he skipped over the puddles forming in the street, he read the moniker of the building 'The Barlow Arms', its red paint glistened in the rain. He had the right place and he hoped that she'd be home because right about now, he had no place to turn.

**********

Anastasia Chase had gotten ready for bed knowing that her dinner date was not going to happen, she had seen in disbelief, her handsome suitor being lead away in chains by the police earlier that evening and came to the conclusion she would never see him again. She was about to turn down the wall sconces when there was a gentle rap at the door. Looking at the clock on her chest of drawers she wondered who could be calling this late of night. Opening the door a crack she peered into the hallway and with surprise called out, "James!"

West stood before her with some flowers he had pilfered from a flowerbox outside. Soaked from his time in the rain, drops of water slid down to the ends of his wet hair, "Better late than never," he commented on their botched date as he presented her with his makeshift bouquet.

Anastasia looked into his emerald eyes and felt herself begin to melt.

"I am truly sorry for being late," he said.

She opened the door to let him in, "I saw you being arrested," she questioned as she accepted the flowers.

"Iron bars could not keep me away," he flirtatiously answered, removing his coat and searching for the heater.

"They said that you shot that man," she stated nervously, shutting the door behind him.

"Not everything," Jim stated as he placed the coat near the heat register and started to warm his hands, "is as it seems."

Anastasia exited the room and returned with a towel, "James you're soaked to the bone, get out of those clothes," she ordered and began to dry him off.

"You know, I don't know how I'll ever repay you," he said softly as she gently wiped his sturdy shoulders.

She looked up at him with her hauntingly beautiful eyes and stated, "I'm sure you'll think of something."

He drew her near, pulling her body to his, he felt her warmth seeping into his skin and she seemed to glow in the faint illumination of the flickering lamplights. West pressed his lips to hers, their kisses fueled their intensity for each other and they slowly floated for the bed.

**********

Artemus found an unused corner of the police station and was scrutinizing the file of the case so far. He was particularly interested with the statement of the witness that claimed he had seen Jim assassinate the Emir. Neal Huet was the name of the witness; he had stated that from his station, across the width of the banquet hall he had clearly seen Jim fire the fatal shot from the theatre box where Jim was captured. He also thumbed through Huet's personal file, nothing was out of the ordinary, an officer for seven years, Huet was unmarried and lived in an apartment near the docks. From Jim's detail file, Artie was able to see where all agents and police officers were stationed. It was possible for Huet's claim to be true as from the diagram he had a clear view of Jim's post and most of the area, but Artemus was still uneasy as his gut was gnawing at him and he could not put his finger on why.

He sat back from the desk; the papers silently stared at him, Gordon grabbed a pencil and started tapping the desk. He wanted to talk with Huet but felt that he needed more before doing so; he gathered the files and slipped them back into their sleeves. He decided to travel back in time and view it from everyone's perspective.

**5**

There were few carriages making their fares throughout the metropolitan area, the horses' hooves clopping over the stone streets and the drivers covered from top to bottom with their heavy garments. The drivers' thick felt top hats looked as if they spilled forth the dark, full scarves that rested upon the shoulders of their substantial overcoats. Sturdy gloves was always a necessity, not only for warmth but also for protection from the reins and the other various leather straps, metal rings and chains used to hitch the horses to the cabs. On dreary nights like these durable riding boots rested over dense pant legs, making working in these conditions bearable.

The fog was refusing to lift, keeping the city, and particularly the bay, wrapped within a hazy cocoon. The corner street lamps shown through murky halos, creating an unreal stillness in the lonely streets as the hunt for James West continued. Any lone man was subject to questioning from the constables weaving their way around the city's lanes and alleys.

James West scanned the area from the apartments third story window; the towel Anastasia had used to dry him off earlier was wrapped around his waist. Anastasia rolled over in the bed to face him, "What cha doin', tiger?"

He let the curtain fall back into place and walked to the bed, taking a seat.

"Just thinking," he answered and gave her a kiss, "wondering where I can get some clothes this time of night."

"If you look in my closet there's a chest," Anastasia said reluctantly.

Jim ventured to the closet, pulled out the locker and opened it.

"I have a hard time throwing things out," she nervously explained as she sat up in bed, "I hope you don't think poorly of me?"

Jim stopped his search and addressed her concern, "Of being human? Frankly I think you're an angel." They both smiled and he continued with his search.

There were three pairs of pants, two pair of very large cotton pants and one pair of denim jeans, which was closer to his size, of the half dozen shirts; he found a sturdy grey one. There were a couple of belts; luckily he did not need one for they were extremely long. At the bottom of the crate was a cigar box, the label of a mighty good brand, he opened it and offered her one of the few remaining cigars, "Care for a smoke," he jokingly asked.

She pulled back, "I'm trying to cut down," she replied with a giggle.

"If you don't object," he stashed a couple in his shirt pocket and a thought sprang to mind as he was returning the box to its place. West studied the box for a moment, flipping the lid up and down. It was feasible, positively brilliant, and the only way he could prove it would be seeing it for himself.

He closed the chest and placed it back in the closet, gathering the clothes, he set them upon the bed and began to dress.

"You wouldn't happen to have any weapons around, angel?"

Anastasia wrapped herself in the blanket and moved from the bed to her dresser, "A girl needs protection nowadays," from the top drawer she brandished a small handgun, "You're cleaning me out of house and home, Mr. West," she said in jest.

He approached her and took the gun, "A Swiss Vulcan .22, a fine feminine firearm."

"What did you expect, a Winchester?"

A box of bullets lay in the drawer and Jim reached in, grabbing a handful, "I really am grateful," he gave her a kiss and when he was finished he placed the gun and its cartridges in the pocket of the overcoat.

"Will I see you again?" she asked, worry shone behind her beautiful eyes.

"Lets just say you won't have to put my tuxedo in your memory chest."

He pulled the coat over his shoulders and with a wink, left the safety of the 'Barlow Arms'.

**6**

Gordon was perfectly okay with giving Col. Richmond his cape, for the layers of special disguises within his clothing had kept him dry and warm. Artemus could barely make out the time from a street clock that was half a block away and only after some straining through the haze, was able to see that both of the hands had converged and was pointing straight up.

Midnight. He hated working at midnight. Not that he was a superstitious man, he was cautious because there were those who were and thus more likely to commit strange and heinous acts during that certain time. People are so unpredictable sometimes. He wished that he could predict what his friend was going to do; after all, Artie was wrong once this evening as he was late for West's jailbreak, he was fearful that he might be late again, and the next time might be over the body of a man he considered a brother.

Artemus traveled by horse through the deserted avenues and he hadn't seen a sign of anyone on the streets since he had left the police station. He had been stopped and questioned twice by the police and witnessed only a few cabs here and there, other than that, it felt as if the world had stopped. A cold chill ran down his spine at the disturbing atmosphere and he re-positioned his revolver to a more accessible placement, tucking his jacket under the handle of his .45.

The longer he stayed on the street, the more he felt as if he was being watched. At times and nonchalantly, Artemus scanned the shadows; when finding nothing he would attribute the feeling to the unsettling environment and relax again, only to have the feeling return. And after the fourth time, he committed to it, "Someone's trying to tell me something," he whispered to himself and he deliberately took a roundabout way, in order to let his stalker or stalkers make a mistake.

Artie saw an opportunity as one of the streetlamps was out, either the lamp had blown out or it was defective, either way it was a chance to flush out anybody that could be following him. He made his way into the gloomy avenue and parked his horse in a side alley, nestled in obscurity against a tall wall Gordon waited. And waited. His steed became anxious; Artemus gently quieted him down by rubbing his neck and whispering kudos into the horse's ear. Just as Gordon decided to resume his journey he pulled back, the faint sounds of a distant and slow clip clop drifted from the beginning of the street. Each successive clip clop grew louder and Artie knew it was drawing nearer. He had timed how long it had taken him to adjust to the darkness and calibrating the oncoming sound, where and when he should confront his trailing companion. The form was getting clearer. Suddenly the figure stopped and Gordon rested his hand on his revolver. Did his shadow begin to feel nervous about the situation? Was he spotted? Artemus could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The silence seemed to last an eternity, until the shadow proceeded, passing Gordon along the way to the light of the adjoining street.

Watching from the darkness, Gordon waited a mere second that the rider was exposed in the light to yell out, "Hold it right there!" He made sure the person heard the cocking of his gun; the sharp distinct sound reverberated down the way. Venturing forth, Artie kept his revolver and his sight on the rider, who by now had their hands up.

The closer Artemus got the more he recognized the form and un-cocked his gun- keeping it rested over his lap- strode alongside his 'tail'.

"Agent Fairplay," Artemus greeted her with a wide smile, "what a pleasant surprise meeting you here!"

The attractive agent put her arms down and with an underlying facetious tone remarked, "I just couldn't wait until you got to the train."

Gordon's tone grew cold, "Amusing. Why were you following me?"

"Richmond wanted your back covered and since Barclay is still steaming with West he decided to send me."

Artie holstered his weapon, "Now that all this ridiculous shadowing business is over, lets get on with more important endeavors, shall we?" Gordon was not completely convinced with her story but was not going to waste any more time in the cold interrogating Fairplay.

Both riders hastened their pace trying to make up for time lost, Gordon brought Fairplay up to speed with his investigation as they cut through the foggy lanes on their way to the opera house.

**********

14


	2. Chapter 2

The Barbary Coast always seemed alive despite the hour or the weather, sailors from every corner of the world found refuge in the dozens of seedy brothels that peppered the area. Every vice could be uncovered within its layers, from the openly obvious such as alcohol and prostitution to even deeper and darker desires that required you leave part of your soul in exchange for services rendered. Hidden from view was the icy underbelly where the slightest wrong move would cost your life in the blink of an eye. Just sampling the atmosphere, the sounds of depravity crept under the surface of its decadence; a faint odor of expended opium weaved through the stench of stale beer and heavy tobacco that, of which, visually hung in the air diminishing what little light consisted in the taverns and brothels further adding to its treacherous flavor.

The stranger that wandered into the dank, dark saloon had blended well with the patrons of the aptly named 'Hellfire Inn'. His clothing and demeanor exuded a cold and hardened aura that almost magically, warded off the muggers, thieves, and murderers that was dotted throughout the room. It was not the first time he had been there, that was two weeks ago after arriving in San Francisco from Ecuador. Originally from Paraguay, he had traveled through Bolivia and Peru to catch the areas only steamship to North America. He was on a quest that had began over six years ago, when at the age of fourteen he was wrenched from the comfort of his family and thrown into the army to fight the ever advancing forces of the Triple Alliance; Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina military forces was tipping the scales of the War and steadily advancing across the country. His father had been inducted the same way only to disappear among the casualties. He learned to kill and as he did, his conscience, bit by bit, eroded. By the time Paraguay surrendered and he returned home it was too late, his entire family, along with his small village had vanished, consumed by the war. Consumed also was his soul, hate and revenge became his substance, a deadly arsenal of methods ran hand in hand with his ruthlessness, physically intimidating, his heavy muscled exterior hid an amazing quickness and flexibility. He had abandoned his name years ago and was simply known as 'The Tarantula', a moniker he earned while building a mountain of kills and a gigantic reputation throughout Southern and Central America. This was his baptism into the international spotlight, the very public assassination of the Emir of Aziz, and, he figured, by his trips conclusion he would be forever cemented in history as the world's most dangerous man.

But he hadn't done it alone; his mysterious benefactor had arranged his transportation to San Francisco, a place to stay, a target, along with blueprints of the opera house and the floor plan of the Secret Service's protective detail. But the rest was all him, preparing his roost, the perfect kill-shot, and the brilliantly simple escape.

The intimidating stranger moved, almost serpent like, through the tables, his eye for detail swept the smoke-filled room as he found the empty, curtained booth where he and his mysterious backer had met weeks before.

"So nice to see you again," Tarantula greeted while taking his seat across the table from the masked man. The assassin was proud of the fact that he could speak English, he studied diligently both that and French knowing that it would be of great benefit if he were to become an international killer.

From the other side of the booth the masked man drew the curtain and answered, "My 'employers' are very pleased with your work so far and…" from the table he began to pour The Tarantula a drink, "…look forward to the completion of your mission."

"Salute." Never taking an offered drink alone, Tarantula raised his glass to the masked man and waited until both drinks were in hand to finish his toast, "to a thousand tomorrows." They touched glasses and swallowed the harsh liquid; Tarantula wiped his mouth with his sleeve, while the mysterious man brought his drink from under the cloak of his mask and gently placed his empty glass upon the table.

"Your next target lives in Denver," he handed over a train ticket, "his name is Quinton Vale, wealthy cattle-baron who has…"

Tarantula interrupted without raising his attention from the ticket, "I don't care what he has done, that he will have to answer to god."

"Very well," the masked man produced a small case, "Inside you will find all the information you'll need to acquire your target, and some spending money." He slid it to the assassin.

A wide grin flashed upon his face, "Many thanks," and The Tarantula took the bag and proceeded to leave, the mystery man stopped him short, "You may have a problem," he alerted.

"His name is James West."

"I have not heard of him."

"He is the man you've framed and he has escaped the authorities," he faced the assassin, "he is a dangerous man and he is going to find you."

Tarantula scoffed, "You tell me how dangerous he is after the sailors at the end of the bar try to steal my bag." And with that he situated the curtain to better the masked man's view and started to exit the saloon.

Just as he had predicted the salty thugs had positioned themselves in Tarantula's path, each one brandishing a weapon. Two had daggers, another shown the rounded blade of a cargo knife, the last smashed the bottom of the empty whiskey bottle that they had finished, and its jagged edges glinted in the lamplight.

"We'll be taking…" the closest of the thugs began, twisting his dagger between his fingers and motioning for the bag with his other hand.

Before he could end his statement the thug was dead, Tarantula lashed out a front kick that landed in the middle of his chest, sending the thug cannon-balling backward, through a partition and onto some stairs behind it. Even though his kick was incredibly powerful, it was the ten-inch, spring-loaded blade that automatically shot from it's casing, strapped to Tarantula's boot and hidden under his pant leg, which punctured the thug's heart.

Catching his would-be attackers by surprise, Tarantula exploded into the next sailor whipping his other foot around, it's blade shot out severing two fingers and shattering the glass weapon into a thousand slivers. Before his foot touched the ground, Tarantula shifted his hips and threw a roundhouse with the same deadly effectiveness as his prior strike, this blade happened to cross the sailors throat, severing his trachea and both arteries in his neck.

Everyone watching moved to safer locations in the bar, mesmerized by what was enfolding before them. Tarantula barely evaded being stabbed as the other sailors jumped into the fray; the assassin trapped the attackers arm under his own and spun against the elbow's give, the horrendous cracking of bone, followed by a shriek in pain from the sailor filled the room. Tarantula plucked the falling dagger from the screaming sailor's hand and silenced him, plunging it deep into his side.

Without missing a beat the assassin spun with the last sailor's lunge, his coat sleeve catching most of the slash. The lone sailor crashed into a nearby table but he remained standing and quickly tried to recover. It was over before he knew it; as he faced the assassin he was met with a flawless back kick and the lethal blade that followed it.

The Hellfire Inn never had a moment of silence as long as the night The Tarantula walked out its swinging doors.


	3. Chapter 3

**7**

Artemus Gordon bypassed his usual custom of picking the lock to the backstage entrance of the opera house; why remain out in the cold fiddling with the lock, instead he decided to use the remainder of the acid that he had used to liberate Col. Richmond, Agent Barclay, and Chief Constable Duggan from their own jail earlier that night. Swirls of smoke danced from the iron bolt and melded into the surrounding fog as he finished applying the corrosive and returned the rubber ball to his vest pocket.

Fairplay had taken the horses further down the alley and hitched them to some boiler pipes leading from the building. By the time she reached Artemus, the acid had eaten through the bolt and the door was opening.

"Horses out of sight," the striking Cassandra notified Artie while brushing one of her fiery locks from her forehead with the barrel of her Colt .45 Peacemaker.

"From what I remember from the blueprints," Artie motioned to their left, "the light activation is along the south wall."

"Why," Fairplay questioned as Artie entered behind her.

She was right, for long slivers of light framed the stage curtain; the lights in the theatre were already illuminated. Both agents' alarms sounded in their heads and they quietly made their way to the center curtain, where they slowly peered between the red-velvet sheets into the immense room.

Gordon felt a rush of energy as their cheeks fell together, Fairplay felt it also, but she obviously was able to conceal her reaction better than Artie. As they scanned the area Artie asked in a whisper, "No offence Fairplay, but how long exactly have you been in the Service?"

She momentarily glanced his way; a look of disbelief across her lovely face, "What?"

"Small talk," Gordon answered her, "simply small talk." His eyes fixed in the shadows of the theatre boxes that ran from each side of the room.

Cassandra continued her search of the balcony at the rear of the building, "Wouldn't this discussion be better discussed over a dinner…" she left her question hanging.

"With champagne…" he added as he concluded that no one else was in the theatre with them.

Fairplay let the curtain drop and looked into Gordon's eyes for a brief moment, a small smile gradually surfaced between her dimpled cheeks, "I would be happy to join you for dinner, Mr. Gordon."

Artie pulled the curtain back and let Fairplay precede him into the theatre, "Tomorrow night?' 'Around seven?"

"The rumors I hear about you are true," she said over her shoulder, "You do not waste any time."

"So true," Artie began and he guided Fairplay to the steps leading to the floor, "If you would position yourself at Officer Huet's post, I'll make my way to the shooter's location."

"Gotcha," she replied and headed toward the rear of the room, Gordon weaved his way through the orchestra pit and to the stairs leading to the box seats east of the stage. About forty feet in he entered the suite and peered out, he found the spot where the Emir went down and turned toward Huet's post. Artemus couldn't see Fairplay anywhere; he adjusted his eyes and looked again as a small wave of panic washed over him. Artie called out, "You there?"

"Yes," she answered as she waved an arm.

Gordon caught a flash of her hand and he leaned slightly over the railing to glimpse around one of the banners that hung from the ceiling directly in the visual path between the two points.

Gordon realized that Huet could not have seen Jim, or anyone else, fire a shot from the box as a large banner obscured the view.

"Head on up here," he directed, "I have a little surprise to show you."

"That's not all…" a voice came from behind him, startling Artie enough for him to almost drop to the floor below.

Gordon spun off the rail fumbling back into the box, his heart raced as he tried to quickly gather himself.

From under the step leading onto the balcony lay James West; he was on his back and appeared to be holding a hinged plank with a tiny handle. West continued, "A makeshift door," he pulled it shut for a couple of seconds then opened it, "an excellent hiding place for our assassin."

"James, you about gave me a heart attack!" Artie exclaimed with his hand on his chest and a scowl upon his face.

West chuckled and repeated his demonstration, sliding back into the space and sealing the secret panel.

"Well I'll be," Gordon said as he stooped down to get a better look and elaborated when West reappeared, "Our killer was tucked safely underneath the floor as you were led away in chains above, brilliant."

Artie helped Jim to his feet as he went on, "All he had to do was shoot the Emir and roll into his hideaway, leaving the weapon and me behind."

"There is something else," Gordon pointed out, "The assassin had to know that you would not be here when the time came," he rubbed his chin, "He had to know that you would not be here."

West understood where his partner was heading, "He needed me gone just long enough to fire his shot, but close enough for me to stumble into his trap."

Artemus grew evermore concerned, "James my boy, as my Great Aunt Maude always used to say, 'I think we're on the thin end of the wedge,' he pointed out, 'The witness could not have seen you from where he said he was at, in addition was the impeccable timing of the plan to place you here with the murder weapon," Artie waved across the way, "There was plenty of other vantage points for him to use, why this one?"

Gordon's observation hit West hard, "You're right, there's more to this than a simple assassination," Jim's tone hardened slightly, "I was to be out of the picture, maybe permanently.' 'Who's here with you?"

"Fairplay," Artie answered, "she should have been here by now."

As if on cue, Fairplay frantically called up to the box, "Artemus we're not alone!"

Gunfire erupted from below and West and Gordon instinctively dropped to the floor as the balcony was riddled with bullets. The colorful ribbons and the red velvet rail casing exploded as hot lead pounded the box, sending crude confetti throughout the tiny area. Both men bolted for the exit, Gordon brandishing his revolver while West let out a disappointing groan as he palmed the pint-sized, petite Swiss-Vulcan .22.


	4. Chapter 4

**8**

The hallway blossomed into a frenzy of activity as a shower of hot lead rained down the corridor, wood and plaster splintered, flying into space, dust and debris from the surrounding scaffolding floated in the air. The sound of the gunshots lingered long-after the bullets were fired, bouncing off the bare walls and uncovered floor, slowly rolling throughout the passageway, fading into silence.

"You okay, Artie?" West whispered across the floor.

"I wrenched the hell out of my ankle," Gordon groaned back, snuggled deep into the far wall.

West was on the other side nestled against a pile of building supplies; cautiously peering from around some scaffolding Jim asked Artie, "Did you see any of their positions?"

"Best guess, eighteen-twenty feet…" Gordon ventured a glance down the darkness of the hall, "… two or three boxes over."

Gordon laid out some cover, firing into the blackness as Jim headed back into the suite. He heard the fight down below and carefully peaked over the ravaged railing.

Fairplay was positioned behind an overturned banquet table; she was holding her own but for how long? Two men were snaking their way around, close to out-flanking her and way out of range for his tiny firearm, and from the sounds below, West estimated that there was at least two others, out of sight and keeping Fairplay pinned down.

Jim briefly contemplated jumping box to box, that would only expose him and burn valuable time. The banners suddenly jumped to his attention, his eyes followed them to the ceiling and his prayer that they would be able to handle his weight was cut short as he reared-up and leapt for the closest one.

**********

Fairplay had a pretty good idea what her opponents were doing and she began pulling on the leg of the sturdy oak table to give herself a little more cover from her exposed side. The table's angle and position was giving her a difficult time in getting it into the desired position and her heart kicked into overdrive as fear began to press its way past her training and defenses. One bullet after another pummeled her shelter, deafening the agent; she closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. The forceful pounding in her chest was shaking her entire body, in that split-second of meditation she had expelled the spent cartridges from her revolver and was almost finished reloading it when she opened her eyes to West swinging from a banner above, and amazingly, firing his weapon toward her exposed side.

As his swing began its turn in its elliptical trip, Fairplay appeared on the far side of the table, now with an idea where her assailants were, took a bead on the two trying to out-flank her. With excellent marksmanship, Fairplay dispatched a quick death, delivering a headshot to both men.

She spun and covered West; Jim had disposed of the .22, did his best not to flail, and tightened his body in order to pick up as much momentum as possible for the remainder of his swing.

Cassandra's good eye and steady hand had cleared the way for West, for she drove two more bullets into their aggressors. West readied himself and focused on the shadows within the neighboring suites, a flash of gunfire appeared and he felt the bullet pass dangerously close, before another shot could be fired Jim was in the air and hurtling into the darkness of the tiny box.

West collided with the figure in the dark with a tremendous thud and they both smashed into the chairs of the suite. In the blackness Jim fought to locate the assailant, he heard the sounds of someone scrambling in search of something. The unmistakable sound of the hammer of a revolver cocking pierced the dark, and Jim grabbed and swung the first thing he could get a hold of. The attacker let out a yelp as the legs of the chair whipped around, smashing into his gun-hand causing his revolver to fly out of the box. Before he could bring the chair around for a second blow, West was struck with a flailing kick that landed on the side of his face, sending him tumbling back into the railing. Jim could hear the gunplay in the hallway as his attacker fled the scene, leaving the door of the suite open.

**********

Cassandra was able to light the rest of the hallways sconces as West and Gordon tended to their wounds, after examining the thug laid out on the floor of the corridor she made her way to the injured duo.

"Well placed shot Mr. Gordon," Fairplay congratulated Artie, "right between the shoulder blades."

"Just lucky I guess," Artemus stated as he tested the strength of his ankle, "Too bad I could not stop the last one from escaping."

"Miss Fairplay," West greeted as he tried to rub the soreness from his jaw.

"I saw the hidden compartment, but," she pointed out to West, "unfortunately, the banner you used for your trapeze act was the one that had covered Huet's view of the suite."

"That doesn't change the fact that he could not have made the observation that he claimed too," Gordon added.

Fairplay turned to West, "How did you know about the crawlspace?"

"Since the theatre is being renovated and no one had been seen leaving the scene, I figured the assassin had simply hid until he had an opportunity to leave undetected when it was all clear,' he patted the cigars in his chest pocket, 'actually I got the idea from a cigar box."

"Speaking of cigars," Gordon approached, "this must have fallen from the pocket of the man you swung into," he presented a broken cigar.

Jim checked to see if he had lost one of his cigars in the fracas, pulling them from his pocket, the realization that they happened to be the same brand sent a cold shiver throughout his body, "Artie," he indicated, "I think I know how they kept me occupied and out of the suite until the right moment.' 'Her name is Anastasia Chase."


	5. Chapter 5

**9**

Artie retrieved the saddlebags that he had created for West; he had packed a fresh set of clothes, a throwing-knife rested in a sheath situated within the back of his suit jacket, and behind it's lapel was a tiny slot with a picklock. Stuffed also in the bags was Jim's gun-belt and holster, with it was his Colt Peacemaker. Forty .45 caliber rounds encircled the belt, and its buckle held four ounces of high-explosive, along with a ten second fuse, hidden behind its face. He also stored West's sleeve-derringer and the forearm apparatus that housed it.

Gordon was particularly proud in introducing his improved pocket-watch, and almost seemed giddy when he familiarized West with it, "From my pocket to yours," Artie let it dangle high from the chain as he handed it over, "It holds just the same amount of explosives as it did before…"

"Does this one keep time?" West asked with a raised brow.

Artie shook off his friend's sarcastic barb and with an equally cynical smirk he continued, "…there are two ways to detonate it," he demonstrated in the air as Jim listened, "Turning the chain-latch on the watch clockwise will reveal a small wire, ten feet long.' 'Simply wedge the watch and tie off the free end and wait for it to be tripped."

"The other way?"

Gordon answered with a satisfied smile, "Turn counter-clockwise and the wire becomes a timer.' 'The first six inches of the wire is color-coded; each inch is either red or white, signifying ten second intervals."

Grasping the concept West finished, "So I can chose anywhere from ten seconds to a minute…"

"Before detonation," concluded Artie while he pulled from his jacket a roll of bills and tossed it to his friend, "Here's a couple of hundred for spending cash."

Artie had sent Fairplay for the police and would wait for her return, but for now he continued searching the area and the deceased attackers for clues while West changed his clothes.

"Jim," Gordon called back to West, "their attire suggests something of a sailor's profession or something thereof," he pointed out.

"You mean like a dock worker or stevedore?" West pulled his shirt over his bronze shoulders, fastening the buttons while he ventured over aside Gordon.

Both men knew that they did not have the luxury of hanging about and digging for more evidence, as Fairplay and the police would be arriving at any minute.

West finished dressing and gathered the rest of his belongings, they exchanged well wishes as he and Gordon exited the building.

Gordon sent Jim off with his horse. At first, he dreaded the thought of hitching a ride, but he then remembered the warmth of Fairplay's cheek earlier on center stage, and figured that sharing a ride with her wasn't going to be bad at all.

**********

Jim's journey back to the Barlow Arm's was a lot nicer and less time consuming than his trip to the opera house, unless you counted the fog, which had significantly increased as it sank deeper into the night. The Colonel's overcoat and being on horseback, off of the cold, cobbled streets kept him warm while the early morning temperatures continued to drop.

The assassination, set up, jailbreak, and ambush during his last six hours was beginning to ware on him and he recognized his need for rest, but fumes of rage and bitterness was churning inside him, prodding and taunting him, as the thought of Anastasia possibly being mixed up with this fueled Jim to push past his fatigue and injuries, and on to the truth.

**********

A wave of unease washed over West on discovering that Anastasia's apartment door was not locked. After noticing that it had not been forced open, he slowly and with great care, opened the door with his left hand and with the other, he cocked his revolver and had it primed within a blink of an eye.

The darkness of the room swallowed the light from the hall as the door inched open, West had already recalled the arrangement of her home and where a possible bushwhacker could be located. Gradually, he peered around the corner, catching only the faint reflection of the furniture from the hallway's glow.

Jim waited a brief moment; only after the door had opened completely did he slide in, stealthily, as if he was walking on air, he made his way through the parlor to the bedroom. The surrounding stillness unnerved West as he ventured into Anastasia's bedroom, finding her upon the bed, he already knew that she was dead; her body lay above the covers, splayed arms and closed legs told West that her killer had straddled Anastasia as he strangled her.

A whiff of tobacco smoke forced West to find its source, a voice from behind him startled the agent, "You wouldn't want to kill me Mr. West…" his whiney tenor resonated throughout the room. A fiery end of a cigarette blossomed in the dark and West raised his revolver to meet it.

"Why wouldn't I," James asked with a hint of revulsion as he trained his eyes on the stranger in the dark.

The stranger's mocking tone surfaced once more, "…Why?' 'For you would undoubtedly be dead." Unexpectedly, light filled the room as the sconces were lit, exposing the stranger and a half-dozen henchmen peppered throughout the room, each one had a gun leveled on West.


	6. Chapter 6

**9**

"People know me as Sebastian Sneed," said the skinny man as he lit another cigarette at the edge of its long pearly-white holder, "the right-hand man to…"

James West cut him short, "The Dutchman."

"Why yes," he answered as a small billow of smoke was caught by the breeze and dispersed through the carriage.

The Dutchman was the head of organized crime within the Barbary Coast; his web stretched from gambling and extortion, to kidnapping and murder, trickling into all the various schemes and vices along the coast and into the southwest.

The look of feinted surprise on the man's face prompted Jim to expound, "We like to keep our files updated, especially the ones that concern the Barbary Coast Underground."

"I am impressed, Mr. West," he shifted in his seat then returned his attention to his guest seated across from him, "Sad to say we are not 'that' well organized, but we do know quite a bit about you."

"Do tell," West said cocking his head, inviting the annoying man to continue.

"I suppose you would be pleased to hear that we knew very little about you until," Sneed paused for effect, "…you killed the original Dutchman in a duel to the death, a mere eighteen months ago …' 'How did it feel when you murdered your good friend, Mr. West?" Sneed mockingly returned the head-tilt.

West calmly eased into his seat and coolly answered, "I don't look back for the ants I step on, Mr. Sneed," West then changed the subject, "What's with the nice carriage ride, I know it's not for this trip down memory lane…"

Sneed himself, eased back and with a drag from his cigarette began, "The current Dutchman has a standing order that you should be killed on sight…"

"And?"

"…and, he is willing to resend it in exchange for a favor that can actually benefit you both."

"Somebody stepping on the Dutchman's toes," West asked with a contemptuous grin.

"A matter-of-fact there is a new-comer to the game that has needled his way into a corner of our operation…"

"…And the Dutchman wants him eliminated," Jim came to the point.

Sneed interjected, "If only life would be that simple, Mr. West.' 'Unfortunately we know only about some of his operatives and bits and pieces of various plans…"

"I don't have time for this, stop the carriage," West instructed.

"One of his operatives was that lovely young lady strangled in her apartment.' 'The 'new-comer' is using his position to plan assassinations from coast to coast…"

Jim stopped short and listened.

"…someone inside the United States Secret Service."

**********

West was cautious and examined every aspect of Sneed's story. He searched for inconsistencies in the story, the tone of his voice, and Sneed's body language. Jim, for the most part, believed him. West absorbed the bitter pill as Sneed went over that the assassination of the Emir was only to frame West, to have him and the Service distracted from the actual targets ahead. He mentioned that Anastasia was the chink in West's armor and that she was killed because she could lead him to the 'new-comer'.

"What about this assassin," West inquired?

"He is from South America, ruthless, deems himself as 'The Worlds Most Dangerous Man, from what four of our operatives experienced tonight he might just be," he brought out another cigarette and tapped it on the edge of the case and continued, "Calls himself the Tarantula."

"And the targets?"

Sneed fitted the cigarette to the end of the holder as he carried on, "We wasn't sure until we discovered that the Tarantula is on his way to Denver…"

Jim completed the thought, "Quinton Vale, wealthy cattle-baron, immersed in a long and deadly range-war that he has been steadily winning…"

"An account that was actually stolen from the Dutchman," Sneed completed his estimation and lit his cigarette.

As West took it all in Sneed produced an envelope and expounded, "Inside is a train ticket for Denver and a hotel key," West took it and glanced in, "the Dutchman thinks that in stopping the Tarantula you will discover his opposition and be duty-bound to eliminate the competition."

West placed the envelope in his breast pocket as the carriage came to a stop at the train station, he caught Sneed's attention as he was exiting, "After I 'eliminate the competition'…" he left his question open for an answer and began to gather one of the cigars from his vest.

Sneed calmly eased into his seat, as West had done earlier, and coolly answered, "The 'standing order' will be put back in place."

West struck a match with his thumbnail and proceeded to take a drag of his cigar, adding to his farewell, "I wouldn't have it any other way." And with that West made his way to the shadows to wait for his train to come in.


End file.
